


Real Book

by baethoven



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Romance, courting, jazz standards, the softest, this is very soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 21:47:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18747733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baethoven/pseuds/baethoven
Summary: Things have settled after the not-Apocalypse. If love is like music- all about timing- than the timing couldn’t be better.





	Real Book

Aziraphale was never one to be abreast the technological advancements of the day. The excitement for the whirring and electric seemed better suited to Crowley, who was eager and voracious in his consumption of the new. Aziraphale had his moments, when humanity was exceptionally brilliant and produced something truly worthwhile. He’d flown across the continent to interrupt Crowley’s wiling in Italy, flailing about some new printing mode out of the Holy Roman Empire and how revolutionary it was. It nearly burned Crowley’s hands off when he handed the book over, forgetting to mention it was _the_ Book. He liked the concept of cuff links very much when they first popped up, and delighted at the endless way humans seemed to combine flour, butter, and sugar. 

Crowley remembered how delighted Aziraphale had been with the phonograph. He’d went straight out and bought the first one available to the public, along with a handful records. Crowley had brought the wine and provisions, and they picnicked on floor while listening to the needle drag across the Amberol, the sound warm and static above the crooning of some vaudeville number. Aziraphale had cranked the player only at the beginning, the machine whirring along on divine energy without any additional stimulation.

As far as advancements went, the 20th century had blown the others out of the water. Automobiles, planes, radios, televisions, A-bombs and rocket ships- it had been such a whirlwind of chaos and ingenuity that each new thing left Crowley spinning in excitement. And that wasn’t even mentioning the things music did, progressing at a rate that far outpaced any sort of bomb or gun the engineers could put out. Each week he had a new vinyl for Aziraphale, an armful if they went too long without seeing each other. There had been recordings of the Classics, Tchaikovsky and Bach being a favorite, peppered in with jazz that started filtering in from America, one of the country’s better qualities Crowley would argue. Aziraphale enjoyed love songs, and blushed, scandalized by the first rhythm and blues they got their hands on. The early rock and roll that Crowley found made Aziraphale tsk at the innuendos, but he would sway his hips as they meandered around the book shop, foot tapping while they chatted. Their collection steadily amassed, keeping residence between their two flats as the decades passed.

The trouble was getting Aziraphale to move past vinyl and into something of better quality. Crowley had bought him a decent turntable in the 60’s and Aziraphale had complained that the gramophone did quite well (and it did, but Crowley insisted he try something that didn’t need Aziraphale’s ethereal being to improve). Tapes were out of the question, and CDs flat out unacknowledged. “It would be such a trouble to find everything we have on the cassettes. And you don’t have to unwind a 78,” Aziraphale said, snotty as ever.

Much to Crowley’s dismay, vinyl seemed to be making a comeback with the youth. Misplaced nostalgia, he decided, longing for things they had no relationship to. Record shops, which had nearly gone extinct, were flourishing once again, filled with bearded men with buns and new wave looking kids in baggy sweaters and tight leggings. Nevermind that you could stream nearly everything that had been recorded on a sleek phone with higher quality than ever existed, the youth wanted something that had “character” and “ambiance”. As if filters on all their photos weren’t enough (and Crowley had gotten quite the commendation for that one), they wanted filters on their songs too.

The worst part was it fueled Aziraphale’s resolution to stay in his errant ways. “If it’s good for them, it’s good for us,” he said, angelic superiority coloring his voice.

“That doesn’t follow at all,” Crowley grumbled.

It was a Saturday morning, and they had decided to meet for brunch. They had been intrigued by the concept of bottomless mimosas and decided to give it a go. By the time they stumbled out of the cafe, they had imbibed six carafes, much to the concern of their waitress. They left out of politeness with only a slight buzz, and decided to wander down the streets before they stumbled upon a record shop and Aziraphale turned on Crowley with such a pleading look in his eye that Crowley couldn’t summon the will to say no.

“Sure it does. This generation is quite clever,” Aziraphale said happily, thumbing through a stack of cardboard sleeves. “They see value in history.”

“This isn’t historical appreciation. This is all for appearances,” Crowley said.

“Hmm, I think you’re just cross because you’re not as ‘hip’ as they are,” Aziraphale said with a smug look.

“Watch it, angel. You’re the one wearing a waissstcoat from 1890,” Crowley hissed.

“Oh, look, Billie Holiday!” Aziraphale said, ignoring the hellish indignation from beside him.

In the end they bought three LP’s, the Billie Holiday, a recording of _Capriccio Italian_ conducted by Bernstein, and ‘Sheer Heart Attack’ by Queen (an olive branch from Aziraphale). They walked back, bickering all the way to the bookshop. By the time they were walking in, Aziraphale had decided some wine was in order. Crowley made himself busy uncorking a Malbec while Aziraphale dragged out the gramophone.

“Does that thing even have the capability to do more than 33 RPM’s?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale studiously ignored him as he took the Billie Holiday out of it’s sleeve. The record popped and crackled beneath the needle, the whirring hum of static before the music began comforting and warm. Crowley knew without looking that Aziraphale hadn’t bothered cranking the machine, or even setting it to the correct rotation, just expected it to perform as it always had.

By the time the Malbec was poured and Crowley was sauntering over with the stems of each glass cradled between his fingers, a charming piano was plucking out a sweet incantation, warmly passing off the melody to a tinny trumpet.

“I remember this one,” Crowley said, passing the wine glass. “What year was it?”

“‘36, I think,” Aziraphale said. He took a sip of the wine. “Where were we in ‘36?”

“I think we were both avoiding Germany by ways of the French Riviera.”

Aziraphale winced. “Well it was an enjoyable few years before all that nonsense started.”

Crowley remembered sand and liquor, and nights spent sparking trouble with whatever wealthy and vaguely royal were in the saloons.

“ _You’d be so easy to love, so easy to idolize all others above_ ,” Billie’s voice winded out of the horn.

“Blasphemous,” Crowley tutted, making Aziraphale chuckle.

“Love is never blasphemous,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley cocked a brow up at him, but Aziraphale just sipped from his wine with a small smile.

“Even this kind of prideful, idolatry kind?” Crowley asked, gesturing towards the gramophone.

Aziraphale shrugged. “You know how it is, the nature of love is-”

Crowley groaned. “Ugh, ineffable, yes, we get it.”

Aziraphale laughed again and finished his wine in one long pull. He set the glass down on an empty space of shelving and rubbed his hands together.

“Right then, let’s dance,” Aziraphale said.

“I’m not gavotting with you,” Crowley said, but he finished his glass too.

“Remember how we used to go dancing in that one small café?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah, I remember you being quite pitiful. Had to teach you the proper steps before I could unleash you on the poor girls,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale put a hand on the small of Crowley’s back, and grasped the other.

“I remember everyone getting quite the laugh whenever I’d lead,” Aziraphale hummed. “Not that I minded.”

They started swaying in a rusty four step, feet shuffling. They both stared down at their toes, trying valiantly to coordinate in a manner they hadn’t done in quite some years.

“Well, you never were one for shame,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale laughed, the bubbling kind he only did when teetering on the edge of drunk.

“ _We’d be so grand at the game, so carefree together, that it does seem a shame_ ,” Billie continued, and Crowley and Aziraphale sang the last lines together, laughing and breathless as they stepped on each other’s toes, “ _that you can’t see, your future with me, Cause you’d be oh so easy to love_!”

They continued on, breaking for more wine and then coming together again, laughing and remembering old times, dead acquaintances. Three bottles of wine passed in this manner, until they were too drunk to do more than sway in each other arms. At some point Crowley had taken the lead and was holding Aziraphale against him, humming into the soft tufts of hair resting against his chest.

“ _I’ll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places_ ,” the words went, lingering atop the soft chords of brass, moved along by the light melismatic tinkering of the piano. Aziraphale sang along, mumbling the words into Crowley’s chest. “ _In that small café, the park across the way, the children’s carousel, the chestnut trees, the wishing well_.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale hummed.

“Mmm?” Crowley intoned. His eyes were closed, body enjoying the sway and the weight of Aziraphale in his arms.

“This one always reminded me of you.”

The acrid heat of alcohol gave way to something purer, which spread up Crowley’s chest slowly. “Why’s that?” he asked.

Aziraphale nosed at Crowley’s shirt and sighed contentedly before settling again. “Dunno. Guess I just hoped to stumble into you whenever we were apart.”

Crowley pulled Aziraphale tighter to him. “Cause I make your life interesting,” he said, hoping to veer this line of thought to something lighter.

Aziraphale snorted and then lolled his head back to look blearily up at Crowley. “There you go, teasing,” Aziraphale said. The shape of the words were scolding, but they were softened by the fondness on Aziraphale’s face. “You know, things are properly settled,” he told Crowley.

“What are you on about?”

“The Acop- Apopl- _Apocalypse_ ,” Aziraphale said. “It’s been a few years now, an’ I don’t think we’re going to get any divine or infernal retribution at this point.”

This felt like a precipice they’d been walking blindly towards for centuries, unaware of it’s spot on the horizon. Crowley felt vertigo now that they’d finally arrived here, after a considerable amount of liquor and reminiscing. What made today any different than the thousands of ones they’d spent together, doing the exact same thing? 

Aziraphale took a hand and rested it gently against Crowley’s cheek, drawing his gaze back to the angel’s. “I was thinking, maybe we could give it a go?”

Crowley swallowed, his tongue dry from the alcohol. “Give what a go?”

Aziraphale smiled, angelic and divine, and said sweetly, “Courting, dear.”

Crowley blinked down at him, slow and serpentine. They had stopped swaying at some point, just clinging to each other, suspended in the moment. It was up to Crowley, then, the choice to keep the status quo, or tip toe forward into the great, yawning unknown the two of them had been teetering on for centuries.

“Ok then,” Crowley said. “But let me do it at my pace.”

Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley had to blink hard against the sudden radiance that admitted from his being. He wished he had his glasses on.

“Of course, dear boy,” Aziraphale said.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This might be the most saccharine and softest thing I’ve ever written (bizarre considering all the kinky, nasty business I’ve written for other fandoms). What can I say? This ship brings it out in me.
> 
> A Real Book is a compilation of jazz standards.


End file.
